The Arkansaw traveler., 1887-12-10
THE HOME OF AN ENG-
 LISH AUTHOR.
The Journalist.

ness of villas, with the inevitable wa tering place pier and few showy stores. From the highest cliffs a glimpse of the Isle of Wight can be had and the gray sullen waters of the English channel. The surroundings of the town are not without some pie turesque beauty; there is the vast ex- panse of the sea stretching out before the town, and the winds have free &C., cess as they blow across the weather clad moorlands.
 Bournemouth is resort for inva- lids, and here, after years of wander ing, Robert Louis Stevenson has .nade himself home. The soft air of this place suits him better than the soli- tudes of Silverado, the olive gardens of Hyeres, or the sunny atmosphere of Montpelier, where he travelled in search of rest and health. Near the little river of the Bourne, which flows through the cliffs, stands a two-story yellow brick house of unpretending aspect, half smothered with ivy, and having blue slate roof, where pigeons love to bask in the sun. This is Sker- ryvore, where the poet and novelist has established his household gods, and where some of his greatest works have been produced.
 MT. William Archer, the distin- guished dramatic critic and journalist, describes in the Critic pilgrimage made to the shrine of the author of "The New Arabian Nights" which is the first detailed account of the novel, ist's home that has been published. Mir. Archer arrived at Skerryvore in time to find MT. Stevenson at dinner before table covered with generous fare, for the author, though disciple of Thoreau, is never forgetful of the inner man.
 "IIe now sits at the foot of the table rolling a limp cigarette in his long, limp fingers, and talking eagerly the while, with just enough trace of Scot tish intonation to remind one that he is the author of 'Thrawn Janet and the creator of Alan Breck SteWd1t. He has still the air and manner of young man, for illness has neither tanned his mind nor aged his body. It has left its mark, however, in the pal Tor of his long, oval face, with its wide set eyes, straight nose and thin Tipped sensitive mouth, scarcely shaded by a light moustache, the jest and scorn of his more ribald intimates. His long, dark hair struggles with an irregular wave down to his neck, wisp of it occasionally falling over his ear, and having to be replaced with light gesture of the hand. He is dressed in black velvet jacket, show ing at the throat the loose, rolling col lar of a white flannel shirt and if it is at all cold he has probably thrown over his shoulders an ancient maroon colored shawl, draped something after the fashion of Mexico poncho. When he stands up you see that he is well above the middle height, and of a naturally 1.-the and agile figure. He still moves with freedom and grace, but the stoop of his shoulders tells tale of suffering.
 Opposite him sits Mrs. Stevenson, the tutelary genius of Skerryvore, a woman of small physical stature, but surely of heroic mould. Her features are clear cut and delicate, but marked by unmistakable strength of cfarac- ter; her hair of an unglossy black, and her complexion darker than one would expect in woman of Dutch American race. We are in the blue room known to readers of Under wood,' where hangs the Venetian mir TOT presented to the poet by that Prince of Men, Henry James, It is an ordinary English dining room of pOst-morrisian yet not ultra aesthetic decoration, the work of the previous tenant, the Sheraton furniture, how ever, being introduced by the present owner. Over the fireplace is an en- graving of Turner's Bell Rock Light house. built by MT. Stevenson's grandfather. Another wall is adorned by two of Piranesi's great Roman etchings, between which hangs the conventional portrait of Shelley Ca gift from his son, Sir Percy Shelley, who lives near Bournemouth), with under it a small portrait of Mary Wollstonecraft. A small armory of buccaneering weapons is grouped un- der the Venetian mirror, some of which were presented to MT. Steven son as having belonged to Pew and LoRQ John Silcer-for the blind pirate of Treasure Island,' and he of the wooden leg, are (more or less) historic personages."
 In discussing literature, MT. Steven son is extravagant in his praise of the elder Dumas, and Tn speaking of George Meredith, relates that he has read the "Egoist" over eight times. When talking on a subject that inter- ests him, the novelist paces up and down the room, nervously rolling and consuming numberless cigarettes. MT. si. L. n SxA-